Volume Three—Chapter Seven.The Old Home.Millicent Hallam was closely veiled as she descended from the coach at the inn-door, while Julia’s handsome young face was free for the knot of gossips of the little town to notice, as they clustered about as of old to see who came in the coach and who were going on.A quiet, drab-looking man had just handed a basket to the guard and was turning away, when he caught sight of Julia’s face and stopped suddenly.“Bless my soul, Mrs Hallam! Oh! I beg your pardon,” he stammered; “I thought—why, it must be Miss—and Mr Bayle, I—I really—I—”He could not speak. The tears stood in his eyes, and he stood there shaking away at both of Christie Bayle’s hands for some moments before he became aware of Millicent Hallam’s presence.“Only to think,” he cried; “but come along.”“We are going up to the doctor’s,” said Bayle.“Yes, yes, you shall; but pray come into my place—only for a minute. My wife will be so—so very pleased to see—Ah, my dear, how you have grown!”James Thickens had become aware that his eccentric behaviour was exciting attention, so he hurried the visitors up to his house.“Your people are quite well, Mrs Hallam,” he said, hardly noticing that there was a curious distance in her manner towards him. “They’re not expecting you, for the doctor was in the bank this morning, and he would have been sure to tell me.”Mrs Hallam could not speak. She had felt so strengthened by tribulation, so hardened by trouble, that she had told herself that she could visit King’s Castor and her old home without emotion; but as she alighted from the coach, the sight of the place and their house brought back so vividly the troubles of the past, and her misery as Robert Hallam’s wife, that her knees trembled, and, but for Julia’s arm, she could hardly have gone on.“Be brave,” whispered a voice at her ear as Thickens prattled on. “This is not like you.”She darted a grateful look through her veil at Christie Bayle, almost wondering at the same time that he should have noticed her emotion. Once she glanced back towards their old house; and her heart gave a throb as she saw there was a painted board upon the front, which could only mean one thing—that it was to let.All feeling of distance and coldness was chased away as Thickens opened the door and let them in to where a plump, pleasant-looking, little, elderly lady was sitting busily knitting, and so changed from the Miss Heathery they had all known that Bayle gazed at her wonderingly.The plump little body started up excitedly and then dropped back in her chair, turning white and then red. She gasped and pressed her hands upon her sides, and then looked up helplessly.“Why, don’t you know who it is?” cried Thickens with boisterous hospitality in his tones.“Know? Yes, James, I know; but what a turn it has given me! My dear—my darling!—oh, I—I—I—I am so glad to see you again.”The little woman had recovered herself and had caught Mrs Hallam to her breast, rocking her to and fro and clinging to her so affectionately that Millicent’s tears began to flow.Bayle turned aside, moved by the warmth of the faithful little woman’s affection, when he felt a dig in his side from an elbow.“Come and have a look at my gold fish, Mr Bayle,” said a husky voice; and with true delicacy Thickens hurried him out, and along his rose-path to where the gold and silver fish were basking in the spring afternoon sun. “Let them have their cry out together,” he whispered. “My little woman quite worships Mrs Hallam. There isn’t a day but she talks about her, and I’d promised to bring her up to town this summer to see her again.”Meantime little Mrs Thickens had left Mrs Hallam, to make wet spots all over Julia’s cheeks as she kissed and fondled her.“My beautiful darling,” she sobbed; “and grown so like—oh, so like—and—and—oh! if I had only known.”The reception was so strange, the little lady’s ways so droll, that, in spite of the weariness of her journey and the trouble hanging over her young life, Julia had felt amused; but the next moment she was clinging to little Mrs Thickens, warmly returning her embrace and feeling a girlish delight in the affectionate caresses showered upon her by her mother’s simple old friend.The stay was but short, for Millicent Hallam was trembling to see her old home and those she loved once more.How little changed all seemed! A dozen years had worked no alterations. The old shops, the old houses, just the same.Yes, there was one change; Mr Gemp sitting at his door, not standing, and with movement left apparently in one part only—his head, which turned towards them, with a fixed look, as they went down the street, and turned and followed them till they were out of sight.“How I recollect it all!” whispered Julia, as she held her mother’s arm. “That old man who used to make Thisbe so cross. Walk more quickly, mamma, he is calling out our name to some one.”It was true; and, as the words seemed to pursue them, Julia uttered an angry ejaculation, as she heard a sob escape from her mother’s breast.“Hi! Gorringe, here’s that shack Hallam’s wife come down. Quick! dost ta hear?”Bayle had stayed back with Thickens to allow his travelling companions to go to the cottage alone, or these words might not have been uttered.And as they appeared to come hissing through the air, Millicent Hallam seemed to realise more and more how Bayle had been their protector, and how she had done wisely in fleeing from the little town, where every flaw in a man’s life was noted and remembered to the end.“How dare he?” cried Julia indignantly; and her young eyes flashed. “Mother, we ought not to have come down here.”“Hush, my child!” said Mrs Hallam softly; “who are we that we cannot bear patiently a few revolting words? If we were guilty, there would be a sting.”The episode was forgotten as they passed out of the town, and along the pleasant road, nearer and nearer to the sweet old home. For Millicent Hallam’s breath came more quickly. She threw back her veil; her eyes brightened, and her pale cheeks flushed.There it all was, unchanged. The great hedges, the yews, the shrubs, and the pleasant rose and creeper-covered cottage, with its glittering windows, and door beneath the rustic porch, open as if to give them welcome.“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Julia eagerly, and her voice sounding full of excitement; “I am beginning to remember it all again so well. I know, yes—the gate fastening inside. I’ll undo it. Up this path, and grandpapa used to be there busy by his frames—round past the big green hedge, where grandmamma’s seat used to be, so that she could watch him while he was at work. And I used to run—and, oh! yes, yes, there! Grandpa! grandpa! here we are.”Had the past twelve years dropped away? Millicent Hallam asked herself, as, seeing all dimly through a veil of tears, she heard Julia’s words, excited, broken, with all a child’s surging excitement and delight, as she ran from her side, across the smooth lawn to where that grey little old lady sat beneath the yew hedge, to swoop down upon her, folding her in one quick caress, and then, before she had recovered from her surprise, darting away, and off the path, over the newly-dug ground, to where that grey old gentleman dropped the hoe with which he was drawing a furrow for his summer marrowfats.The twelve years had dropped from Julia’s mind for the time, and, a child once more, she was clinging to and kissing the old man, with whom she returned to where her mother was kneeling, locked in Mrs Luttrell’s arms.“The dear, dear, dear old place!” cried Julia, with childlike ecstasy. “Grandpa, grandma, we’re come down to stay, and we must never leave you again.”She stopped, trembling, her beautiful eyes dilated, and a feeling of chilling despair clutching at her heart, as her mother turned her ghastly face towards her, and her name seemed to float to her ears and away into the distance, in a cry that was like the wail of a stricken, desolate heart.“Julia!”“Mother, dearest mother, forgive me!” she cried, as she threw herself upon her breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. “I did not think: I had forgotten all.”
Millicent Hallam was closely veiled as she descended from the coach at the inn-door, while Julia’s handsome young face was free for the knot of gossips of the little town to notice, as they clustered about as of old to see who came in the coach and who were going on.
A quiet, drab-looking man had just handed a basket to the guard and was turning away, when he caught sight of Julia’s face and stopped suddenly.
“Bless my soul, Mrs Hallam! Oh! I beg your pardon,” he stammered; “I thought—why, it must be Miss—and Mr Bayle, I—I really—I—”
He could not speak. The tears stood in his eyes, and he stood there shaking away at both of Christie Bayle’s hands for some moments before he became aware of Millicent Hallam’s presence.
“Only to think,” he cried; “but come along.”
“We are going up to the doctor’s,” said Bayle.
“Yes, yes, you shall; but pray come into my place—only for a minute. My wife will be so—so very pleased to see—Ah, my dear, how you have grown!”
James Thickens had become aware that his eccentric behaviour was exciting attention, so he hurried the visitors up to his house.
“Your people are quite well, Mrs Hallam,” he said, hardly noticing that there was a curious distance in her manner towards him. “They’re not expecting you, for the doctor was in the bank this morning, and he would have been sure to tell me.”
Mrs Hallam could not speak. She had felt so strengthened by tribulation, so hardened by trouble, that she had told herself that she could visit King’s Castor and her old home without emotion; but as she alighted from the coach, the sight of the place and their house brought back so vividly the troubles of the past, and her misery as Robert Hallam’s wife, that her knees trembled, and, but for Julia’s arm, she could hardly have gone on.
“Be brave,” whispered a voice at her ear as Thickens prattled on. “This is not like you.”
She darted a grateful look through her veil at Christie Bayle, almost wondering at the same time that he should have noticed her emotion. Once she glanced back towards their old house; and her heart gave a throb as she saw there was a painted board upon the front, which could only mean one thing—that it was to let.
All feeling of distance and coldness was chased away as Thickens opened the door and let them in to where a plump, pleasant-looking, little, elderly lady was sitting busily knitting, and so changed from the Miss Heathery they had all known that Bayle gazed at her wonderingly.
The plump little body started up excitedly and then dropped back in her chair, turning white and then red. She gasped and pressed her hands upon her sides, and then looked up helplessly.
“Why, don’t you know who it is?” cried Thickens with boisterous hospitality in his tones.
“Know? Yes, James, I know; but what a turn it has given me! My dear—my darling!—oh, I—I—I—I am so glad to see you again.”
The little woman had recovered herself and had caught Mrs Hallam to her breast, rocking her to and fro and clinging to her so affectionately that Millicent’s tears began to flow.
Bayle turned aside, moved by the warmth of the faithful little woman’s affection, when he felt a dig in his side from an elbow.
“Come and have a look at my gold fish, Mr Bayle,” said a husky voice; and with true delicacy Thickens hurried him out, and along his rose-path to where the gold and silver fish were basking in the spring afternoon sun. “Let them have their cry out together,” he whispered. “My little woman quite worships Mrs Hallam. There isn’t a day but she talks about her, and I’d promised to bring her up to town this summer to see her again.”
Meantime little Mrs Thickens had left Mrs Hallam, to make wet spots all over Julia’s cheeks as she kissed and fondled her.
“My beautiful darling,” she sobbed; “and grown so like—oh, so like—and—and—oh! if I had only known.”
The reception was so strange, the little lady’s ways so droll, that, in spite of the weariness of her journey and the trouble hanging over her young life, Julia had felt amused; but the next moment she was clinging to little Mrs Thickens, warmly returning her embrace and feeling a girlish delight in the affectionate caresses showered upon her by her mother’s simple old friend.
The stay was but short, for Millicent Hallam was trembling to see her old home and those she loved once more.
How little changed all seemed! A dozen years had worked no alterations. The old shops, the old houses, just the same.
Yes, there was one change; Mr Gemp sitting at his door, not standing, and with movement left apparently in one part only—his head, which turned towards them, with a fixed look, as they went down the street, and turned and followed them till they were out of sight.
“How I recollect it all!” whispered Julia, as she held her mother’s arm. “That old man who used to make Thisbe so cross. Walk more quickly, mamma, he is calling out our name to some one.”
It was true; and, as the words seemed to pursue them, Julia uttered an angry ejaculation, as she heard a sob escape from her mother’s breast.
“Hi! Gorringe, here’s that shack Hallam’s wife come down. Quick! dost ta hear?”
Bayle had stayed back with Thickens to allow his travelling companions to go to the cottage alone, or these words might not have been uttered.
And as they appeared to come hissing through the air, Millicent Hallam seemed to realise more and more how Bayle had been their protector, and how she had done wisely in fleeing from the little town, where every flaw in a man’s life was noted and remembered to the end.
“How dare he?” cried Julia indignantly; and her young eyes flashed. “Mother, we ought not to have come down here.”
“Hush, my child!” said Mrs Hallam softly; “who are we that we cannot bear patiently a few revolting words? If we were guilty, there would be a sting.”
The episode was forgotten as they passed out of the town, and along the pleasant road, nearer and nearer to the sweet old home. For Millicent Hallam’s breath came more quickly. She threw back her veil; her eyes brightened, and her pale cheeks flushed.
There it all was, unchanged. The great hedges, the yews, the shrubs, and the pleasant rose and creeper-covered cottage, with its glittering windows, and door beneath the rustic porch, open as if to give them welcome.
“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Julia eagerly, and her voice sounding full of excitement; “I am beginning to remember it all again so well. I know, yes—the gate fastening inside. I’ll undo it. Up this path, and grandpapa used to be there busy by his frames—round past the big green hedge, where grandmamma’s seat used to be, so that she could watch him while he was at work. And I used to run—and, oh! yes, yes, there! Grandpa! grandpa! here we are.”
Had the past twelve years dropped away? Millicent Hallam asked herself, as, seeing all dimly through a veil of tears, she heard Julia’s words, excited, broken, with all a child’s surging excitement and delight, as she ran from her side, across the smooth lawn to where that grey little old lady sat beneath the yew hedge, to swoop down upon her, folding her in one quick caress, and then, before she had recovered from her surprise, darting away, and off the path, over the newly-dug ground, to where that grey old gentleman dropped the hoe with which he was drawing a furrow for his summer marrowfats.
The twelve years had dropped from Julia’s mind for the time, and, a child once more, she was clinging to and kissing the old man, with whom she returned to where her mother was kneeling, locked in Mrs Luttrell’s arms.
“The dear, dear, dear old place!” cried Julia, with childlike ecstasy. “Grandpa, grandma, we’re come down to stay, and we must never leave you again.”
She stopped, trembling, her beautiful eyes dilated, and a feeling of chilling despair clutching at her heart, as her mother turned her ghastly face towards her, and her name seemed to float to her ears and away into the distance, in a cry that was like the wail of a stricken, desolate heart.
“Julia!”
“Mother, dearest mother, forgive me!” she cried, as she threw herself upon her breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. “I did not think: I had forgotten all.”
Volume Three—Chapter Eight.Julia Seems Strange.It was as if that forlorn cry uttered by Millicent Hallam pervaded their visit to the old home. It was a happy reunion, but how full of pain! Joy and sorrow were hand in hand. It was life in its greatest truth.The sweet, peaceful old home, with its garden in the early livery of spring; the fragrance of the opening leaves; the delicious odour of the earth after the soft rain that had fallen in the night; the early flowers, all so bright in the clear country air, to those who had been pent up in town; while clear ringing, and each tuned to that wondrous pitch that thrills the heart in early spring, there were the notes of the birds.Millicent Hallam’s eyes closed as she stood in that garden, clasping her child’s hand in hers, and listening to each love-tuned call. The thrush, that; now soft, mellow, and so sweet that the tears came, there was the blackbird’s pipe; then again, from overhead, that pleasant little sharp “pink, pink,” of the chaffinch, followed by its musical treble, as of liquid gems falling quickly into glass; while far above in the clear blue sky, softened by the distance, came the lark’s song—a song she had not listened to for a dozen years.“For the last time—for the last time, good-bye, dear home, good-bye!”“Mother!”“Did I speak?” said Millicent, starting.“Speak?” cried Julia excitedly. “Oh, mother, dear mother, your words seemed so strange; they almost break my heart.”“Hearts do not break, Julie,” said Mrs Hallam softly; “they can bear so much, my darling, so much.”“But you spoke as if you never thought to see this dear old place again.”“Did I, my child?” said Mrs Hallam, dreamily, as she gazed wistfully round. “Well, who knows? who knows? Life cannot be all joy, and we must be prepared for change.”“And we must go, mother, away—to that place?”“Yes,” said Mrs Hallam sternly, and she drew herself up, and seemed as if she were trying to harden her heart against the weakness of her child.It had been a painful meeting, over which Mrs Luttrell had broken down, while the old doctor had stood with quivering lip.“I can’t say a word, my child. I could only beg of you to stay.”“And tear and wring my heart anew, dear father,” Millicent had said in return with many a tender caress.Then the old people had pleaded that Julia might remain; and there had been another painful scene, and the night of their coming had been indeed a mingling of joy and sorrow.Bayle had been up to sit with them for a short time in the evening; but with kindly delicacy he had left soon, and at last sleep had given some relief to the sorrow-stricken hearts in the old home.Then had come the glorious spring morning, and, stealing through the garden, mother and child had felt their hearts lifted by the mysterious influence of the budding year, till over all, like a cloud, came Millicent’s farewell to the home she would never see again.Prophetic and true—or the false imaginings of a sorrow-charged brain? Who could say?The stay was to be but short, for they returned that night by the coach which passed through, as it had gone on passing since that night when the agonised wife had sat watching for the news from the assize town.“It will be better so,” Millicent Hallam had said. “It will be less painful to my dear ones in the old home, and Julie. Christie Bayle, I could not bear this strain for long. We must finish and away. He is waiting for us now.”About midday Bayle came up to the cottage, quiet and grave as ever, but with a smile for Julia, as she hurried to meet him, Millicent coming more slowly behind.“I have brought the keys,” he said. “I found they were in Mr Thickens’s charge. May I give you a word of advice?”“Always,” said Mrs Hallam smiling; but he noticed that she was deadly pale.“I would not stay there long. I understand the feeling that prompts you to visit the old home again. See it and come away, for it must be full of painful memories; and now you must be firm and strong.”“Yes, yes,” she said quickly. “You will stay here?”“Certainly,” he replied.“You are going out?” cried Julia.“I must see our old home again, before I go,” said Mrs Hallam, in a sharp, nervous manner.“And I may go with you, dear?” pleaded Julia.“No; I must go alone,” said her mother in a strained, imperious manner. “Stay here.”For answer, Julia shrank back, but only for a moment. Then her arms were round her mother’s neck, and she kissed her, saying:“Remember Mr Bayle’s advice, dear. Come back soon.”Mrs Hallam kissed her tenderly, nodded, and hurried into the house.Ten minutes later, as Julia was seated in the little drawing-room at the tinkling old square piano, and Bayle was leaning forward watching her hands, with his arms resting upon his knees, thinking—thinking of the boyish curate who, in that very place, had told of his first passion, and then gone heart-broken away, there was a quick step on the gravel, and he turned to see the dark, graceful figure of the woman he had loved, her face closely veiled, and her travelling satchel upon her arm, pass through the gate, which closed with a sharp click.“To stand face to face with the ghosts of her early married life,” he said, in a low voice. “Heaven be merciful, and soften Thou her fate.”He started, for as but a short time since Julia had heard her mother’s audible thoughts, she had now heard his; and she was standing before him, pale, and with her hands clasped, as she looked in his care-lined face.“Julia—my child!” he said wonderingly.“I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it,” she cried, bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing; and she fled from the room.
It was as if that forlorn cry uttered by Millicent Hallam pervaded their visit to the old home. It was a happy reunion, but how full of pain! Joy and sorrow were hand in hand. It was life in its greatest truth.
The sweet, peaceful old home, with its garden in the early livery of spring; the fragrance of the opening leaves; the delicious odour of the earth after the soft rain that had fallen in the night; the early flowers, all so bright in the clear country air, to those who had been pent up in town; while clear ringing, and each tuned to that wondrous pitch that thrills the heart in early spring, there were the notes of the birds.
Millicent Hallam’s eyes closed as she stood in that garden, clasping her child’s hand in hers, and listening to each love-tuned call. The thrush, that; now soft, mellow, and so sweet that the tears came, there was the blackbird’s pipe; then again, from overhead, that pleasant little sharp “pink, pink,” of the chaffinch, followed by its musical treble, as of liquid gems falling quickly into glass; while far above in the clear blue sky, softened by the distance, came the lark’s song—a song she had not listened to for a dozen years.
“For the last time—for the last time, good-bye, dear home, good-bye!”
“Mother!”
“Did I speak?” said Millicent, starting.
“Speak?” cried Julia excitedly. “Oh, mother, dear mother, your words seemed so strange; they almost break my heart.”
“Hearts do not break, Julie,” said Mrs Hallam softly; “they can bear so much, my darling, so much.”
“But you spoke as if you never thought to see this dear old place again.”
“Did I, my child?” said Mrs Hallam, dreamily, as she gazed wistfully round. “Well, who knows? who knows? Life cannot be all joy, and we must be prepared for change.”
“And we must go, mother, away—to that place?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Hallam sternly, and she drew herself up, and seemed as if she were trying to harden her heart against the weakness of her child.
It had been a painful meeting, over which Mrs Luttrell had broken down, while the old doctor had stood with quivering lip.
“I can’t say a word, my child. I could only beg of you to stay.”
“And tear and wring my heart anew, dear father,” Millicent had said in return with many a tender caress.
Then the old people had pleaded that Julia might remain; and there had been another painful scene, and the night of their coming had been indeed a mingling of joy and sorrow.
Bayle had been up to sit with them for a short time in the evening; but with kindly delicacy he had left soon, and at last sleep had given some relief to the sorrow-stricken hearts in the old home.
Then had come the glorious spring morning, and, stealing through the garden, mother and child had felt their hearts lifted by the mysterious influence of the budding year, till over all, like a cloud, came Millicent’s farewell to the home she would never see again.
Prophetic and true—or the false imaginings of a sorrow-charged brain? Who could say?
The stay was to be but short, for they returned that night by the coach which passed through, as it had gone on passing since that night when the agonised wife had sat watching for the news from the assize town.
“It will be better so,” Millicent Hallam had said. “It will be less painful to my dear ones in the old home, and Julie. Christie Bayle, I could not bear this strain for long. We must finish and away. He is waiting for us now.”
About midday Bayle came up to the cottage, quiet and grave as ever, but with a smile for Julia, as she hurried to meet him, Millicent coming more slowly behind.
“I have brought the keys,” he said. “I found they were in Mr Thickens’s charge. May I give you a word of advice?”
“Always,” said Mrs Hallam smiling; but he noticed that she was deadly pale.
“I would not stay there long. I understand the feeling that prompts you to visit the old home again. See it and come away, for it must be full of painful memories; and now you must be firm and strong.”
“Yes, yes,” she said quickly. “You will stay here?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
“You are going out?” cried Julia.
“I must see our old home again, before I go,” said Mrs Hallam, in a sharp, nervous manner.
“And I may go with you, dear?” pleaded Julia.
“No; I must go alone,” said her mother in a strained, imperious manner. “Stay here.”
For answer, Julia shrank back, but only for a moment. Then her arms were round her mother’s neck, and she kissed her, saying:
“Remember Mr Bayle’s advice, dear. Come back soon.”
Mrs Hallam kissed her tenderly, nodded, and hurried into the house.
Ten minutes later, as Julia was seated in the little drawing-room at the tinkling old square piano, and Bayle was leaning forward watching her hands, with his arms resting upon his knees, thinking—thinking of the boyish curate who, in that very place, had told of his first passion, and then gone heart-broken away, there was a quick step on the gravel, and he turned to see the dark, graceful figure of the woman he had loved, her face closely veiled, and her travelling satchel upon her arm, pass through the gate, which closed with a sharp click.
“To stand face to face with the ghosts of her early married life,” he said, in a low voice. “Heaven be merciful, and soften Thou her fate.”
He started, for as but a short time since Julia had heard her mother’s audible thoughts, she had now heard his; and she was standing before him, pale, and with her hands clasped, as she looked in his care-lined face.
“Julia—my child!” he said wonderingly.
“I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it,” she cried, bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing; and she fled from the room.
Volume Three—Chapter Nine.The Strange Quest.“She be going to look over the owd house again, Gorringe,” shouted Gemp, as he watched the dark veiled figure. “You mark my words; they’re a coming back, and he’ll be keeping bank; and the sooner thou teks out thy money the better.”There was a strange echo in the place that made a shudder run through Millicent Hallam’s frame as she turned the key; but she had nerved herself to her task, and though hands and brow were damp, she did not hesitate, but went in.A quick glance told her that a couple of score pairs of eyes were watching her movements, but for that she was prepared, and, taking out the key, she inserted it in the inside of the lock, closed the door, and slipped one of the rusty bolts.“I must be firm,” she muttered as she glanced round the empty hall, shuddering as she recalled the scene on that night, and seeming to see once more the crowd—the fire—her husband struggling for his life.“I will not think,” she cried, stamping her foot, and placing her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible recollections; and an echo ran through the place, and seemed to go from room to room and die away in the great attic where Julia used to play.No; she had not come to stand face to face with the ghosts of past memories: she had driven them away. She did not go into the old panelled dining-room, where she had watched for such long hours for her husband’s return, neither did she turn the handle to enter the melancholy cobweb-hung drawing-room, or note that the papers in the chambers were soiled and faded and different, and that the damp made some hang in festoons from the corners, and other pieces fold right over and peel down from the wall.No; she paused for none of these, but, as if moved by some strong impulse, ran right up to the top of the house, and stood in the great attic lumber-room, brightly lit by a skylight, and a dormer at the farther end.Then, with her heart beating quickly, she took from her bosom the portion she had cut from Hallam’s letter, and read it in a low, hoarse voice.“Go to Castor if you have left there, and get possession of the old house for a day if it is empty. If not, you must get there by some excuse that your woman’s wit may find. As a last resource, take it, and buy the tenant out at any cost, but get there. Go alone, and take with you a hammer and screw-driver. Shut yourself up securely in the place, and then go upstairs to the attic where we kept the old lumber. There, on the right-hand side of the fireplace, in the built-up wall, just one foot from the floor, and right in the centre, drive in the screw-driver with the hammer, and chip away the plaster. Do not fail. You will find there a little recess carefully plastered, and papered over. In that recess is a small locked tin box. Take it out, and bring it to me unopened. That box contains papers of vital importance to me, for they will set me free.“Read above again. Strike in the screw-driver boldly, for the box is there, and I charge you, my wife, to bring it safely and untouched to me.“Once more, this must be secretly done. No one must know but you. If it were known, I might not succeed in getting my liberty.”Millicent Hallam thrust the paper back in her bosom and stood there in that unoccupied room with a strange buzzing in her ears, and films floating before her eyes.“I am choking,” she gasped; “water—air.”She reeled, and seemed about to fall, but by a supreme effort she forced her tottering way to the dormer window, opened it, and the fresh air recovered her.“Oh, for strength—strength!” she gasped as she clung to the sill. “It is for his freedom—to save him I am come.”Her words gave her the force, and, looking down, she saw that her act had been observed by those who watched the house.That gave her additional strength, and, with a look of contempt, she closed the window and was calm. Quickly opening her bag, she took from it a stout short hammer and a screw-driver.“I must risk the noise,” she said, as she drew off her gloves; and then noting the spot described in the directions, she found the paper ready to peel off on being touched, and placing the screw-driver just where she had been told, she struck the end sharply and stopped, trembling, for the blow resounded throughout the house.The cold sweat gathered on her face, and she began to tremble; but, smiling at her fears, she doubled her gloves, held them on the top of the screw-driver, and struck again and again, driving the chisel end right into the plaster, through which, after a blow or two, it passed, and her heart throbbed, for there was the hollow place behind, just as the letter said.At that moment there was a loud sound without, as of a blow upon the front door, and she stopped, trembling, to listen.No; it was the jolt of a heavy-laden springiest cart, and as it rattled over the cobble-stones she struck again and again with quick haste at the plaster, and then, wrenching, tore out piece after piece, till she could thrust in her hand to utter a cry of joy, for she touched a tin box.The rest was the work of a few minutes. She had only to enlarge the hole a little, and then she could draw out that of which she was in search—a black, dust-covered tin box about the width and depth of an ordinary brick, but a couple or three inches longer.Her hands were scratched and bleeding, and covered with lime, but she did not heed that in her excitement. Raising the box to her lips she kissed it, and taking out her kerchief wiped from it the dust. Then she asked herself the question, what should she do next, now that the treasure, the sacred papers that should prove her husband’s innocence, were found? It was easy enough. The box was light, as one containing papers would be, and would just pass into her travelling satchel. That, was soon done and the strings drawn. Then there were the hammer and screw-driver.She looked around. There was a loose board close by, easily lifted, and down beneath this she thrust the hammer, while a rat-hole at the base of the wall invited occupation for the screw-driver.The plaster? The wall? She could do nothing there. It was impossible to hide that, and she stood trembling again. But who would suspect her, if any one came? She glanced at herself, brushed off a few scraps of plaster, and put on her gloves over her bleeding hands. A thought struck her: she might lock the door of the attic.Again she started, for there was a sound below, a loud rat-tat at the front door, and she stood with her heart beating horribly till she heard the sound of racing footsteps and a burst of children’s laughter. Some mischievous urchins had knocked at the door of the empty house.Forcing herself to be calm, Millicent Hallam felt the box in her bag, and asked herself whether she had fully obeyed her husband’s command and succeeded. Was this the box? She repeated the directions with her eyes fixed upon the spot from whence she had extracted it. Yes; there could be no mistake, she must be right, and, lowering her veil, she passed out of the attic with its littered floor, closed and locked the door, took out the key, and descended as if in a dream to the hall, where she paused to satisfy herself that her dress showed no traces of her work, and that the box was safely hidden.All was right, and she drew a long breath.And now once more came the tremor and faintness; the memories of the old place seemed to be crowding round her; and in the agony of her spirit she felt that she would faint, and perhaps all would be discovered. She fought this down and another horror assailed her. She had come there like a thief; she had broken open part of the house and stolen this case which she was bearing away, and she trembled like a leaf. But once more her womanhood and faith asserted themselves.“His papers, his own hiding, in our own house,” she said proudly. “Robert, husband, I have them safe. I will bear them to you over the sea.”Opening the door with firm hand she passed out, the soft pure air reviving her, and she started, for a well-known voice said:“I will close the door for you, Mrs Hallam. Forgive me for coming. You have been so long, I had grown uneasy.”“Long?” she said, looking at Bayle wildly.“Yes; time passes quickly when we are deep in thought. It is two hours since you left me at the cottage.”It had seemed to her but a few minutes’ wild, exciting search.
“She be going to look over the owd house again, Gorringe,” shouted Gemp, as he watched the dark veiled figure. “You mark my words; they’re a coming back, and he’ll be keeping bank; and the sooner thou teks out thy money the better.”
There was a strange echo in the place that made a shudder run through Millicent Hallam’s frame as she turned the key; but she had nerved herself to her task, and though hands and brow were damp, she did not hesitate, but went in.
A quick glance told her that a couple of score pairs of eyes were watching her movements, but for that she was prepared, and, taking out the key, she inserted it in the inside of the lock, closed the door, and slipped one of the rusty bolts.
“I must be firm,” she muttered as she glanced round the empty hall, shuddering as she recalled the scene on that night, and seeming to see once more the crowd—the fire—her husband struggling for his life.
“I will not think,” she cried, stamping her foot, and placing her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible recollections; and an echo ran through the place, and seemed to go from room to room and die away in the great attic where Julia used to play.
No; she had not come to stand face to face with the ghosts of past memories: she had driven them away. She did not go into the old panelled dining-room, where she had watched for such long hours for her husband’s return, neither did she turn the handle to enter the melancholy cobweb-hung drawing-room, or note that the papers in the chambers were soiled and faded and different, and that the damp made some hang in festoons from the corners, and other pieces fold right over and peel down from the wall.
No; she paused for none of these, but, as if moved by some strong impulse, ran right up to the top of the house, and stood in the great attic lumber-room, brightly lit by a skylight, and a dormer at the farther end.
Then, with her heart beating quickly, she took from her bosom the portion she had cut from Hallam’s letter, and read it in a low, hoarse voice.
“Go to Castor if you have left there, and get possession of the old house for a day if it is empty. If not, you must get there by some excuse that your woman’s wit may find. As a last resource, take it, and buy the tenant out at any cost, but get there. Go alone, and take with you a hammer and screw-driver. Shut yourself up securely in the place, and then go upstairs to the attic where we kept the old lumber. There, on the right-hand side of the fireplace, in the built-up wall, just one foot from the floor, and right in the centre, drive in the screw-driver with the hammer, and chip away the plaster. Do not fail. You will find there a little recess carefully plastered, and papered over. In that recess is a small locked tin box. Take it out, and bring it to me unopened. That box contains papers of vital importance to me, for they will set me free.“Read above again. Strike in the screw-driver boldly, for the box is there, and I charge you, my wife, to bring it safely and untouched to me.“Once more, this must be secretly done. No one must know but you. If it were known, I might not succeed in getting my liberty.”
“Go to Castor if you have left there, and get possession of the old house for a day if it is empty. If not, you must get there by some excuse that your woman’s wit may find. As a last resource, take it, and buy the tenant out at any cost, but get there. Go alone, and take with you a hammer and screw-driver. Shut yourself up securely in the place, and then go upstairs to the attic where we kept the old lumber. There, on the right-hand side of the fireplace, in the built-up wall, just one foot from the floor, and right in the centre, drive in the screw-driver with the hammer, and chip away the plaster. Do not fail. You will find there a little recess carefully plastered, and papered over. In that recess is a small locked tin box. Take it out, and bring it to me unopened. That box contains papers of vital importance to me, for they will set me free.
“Read above again. Strike in the screw-driver boldly, for the box is there, and I charge you, my wife, to bring it safely and untouched to me.
“Once more, this must be secretly done. No one must know but you. If it were known, I might not succeed in getting my liberty.”
Millicent Hallam thrust the paper back in her bosom and stood there in that unoccupied room with a strange buzzing in her ears, and films floating before her eyes.
“I am choking,” she gasped; “water—air.”
She reeled, and seemed about to fall, but by a supreme effort she forced her tottering way to the dormer window, opened it, and the fresh air recovered her.
“Oh, for strength—strength!” she gasped as she clung to the sill. “It is for his freedom—to save him I am come.”
Her words gave her the force, and, looking down, she saw that her act had been observed by those who watched the house.
That gave her additional strength, and, with a look of contempt, she closed the window and was calm. Quickly opening her bag, she took from it a stout short hammer and a screw-driver.
“I must risk the noise,” she said, as she drew off her gloves; and then noting the spot described in the directions, she found the paper ready to peel off on being touched, and placing the screw-driver just where she had been told, she struck the end sharply and stopped, trembling, for the blow resounded throughout the house.
The cold sweat gathered on her face, and she began to tremble; but, smiling at her fears, she doubled her gloves, held them on the top of the screw-driver, and struck again and again, driving the chisel end right into the plaster, through which, after a blow or two, it passed, and her heart throbbed, for there was the hollow place behind, just as the letter said.
At that moment there was a loud sound without, as of a blow upon the front door, and she stopped, trembling, to listen.
No; it was the jolt of a heavy-laden springiest cart, and as it rattled over the cobble-stones she struck again and again with quick haste at the plaster, and then, wrenching, tore out piece after piece, till she could thrust in her hand to utter a cry of joy, for she touched a tin box.
The rest was the work of a few minutes. She had only to enlarge the hole a little, and then she could draw out that of which she was in search—a black, dust-covered tin box about the width and depth of an ordinary brick, but a couple or three inches longer.
Her hands were scratched and bleeding, and covered with lime, but she did not heed that in her excitement. Raising the box to her lips she kissed it, and taking out her kerchief wiped from it the dust. Then she asked herself the question, what should she do next, now that the treasure, the sacred papers that should prove her husband’s innocence, were found? It was easy enough. The box was light, as one containing papers would be, and would just pass into her travelling satchel. That, was soon done and the strings drawn. Then there were the hammer and screw-driver.
She looked around. There was a loose board close by, easily lifted, and down beneath this she thrust the hammer, while a rat-hole at the base of the wall invited occupation for the screw-driver.
The plaster? The wall? She could do nothing there. It was impossible to hide that, and she stood trembling again. But who would suspect her, if any one came? She glanced at herself, brushed off a few scraps of plaster, and put on her gloves over her bleeding hands. A thought struck her: she might lock the door of the attic.
Again she started, for there was a sound below, a loud rat-tat at the front door, and she stood with her heart beating horribly till she heard the sound of racing footsteps and a burst of children’s laughter. Some mischievous urchins had knocked at the door of the empty house.
Forcing herself to be calm, Millicent Hallam felt the box in her bag, and asked herself whether she had fully obeyed her husband’s command and succeeded. Was this the box? She repeated the directions with her eyes fixed upon the spot from whence she had extracted it. Yes; there could be no mistake, she must be right, and, lowering her veil, she passed out of the attic with its littered floor, closed and locked the door, took out the key, and descended as if in a dream to the hall, where she paused to satisfy herself that her dress showed no traces of her work, and that the box was safely hidden.
All was right, and she drew a long breath.
And now once more came the tremor and faintness; the memories of the old place seemed to be crowding round her; and in the agony of her spirit she felt that she would faint, and perhaps all would be discovered. She fought this down and another horror assailed her. She had come there like a thief; she had broken open part of the house and stolen this case which she was bearing away, and she trembled like a leaf. But once more her womanhood and faith asserted themselves.
“His papers, his own hiding, in our own house,” she said proudly. “Robert, husband, I have them safe. I will bear them to you over the sea.”
Opening the door with firm hand she passed out, the soft pure air reviving her, and she started, for a well-known voice said:
“I will close the door for you, Mrs Hallam. Forgive me for coming. You have been so long, I had grown uneasy.”
“Long?” she said, looking at Bayle wildly.
“Yes; time passes quickly when we are deep in thought. It is two hours since you left me at the cottage.”
It had seemed to her but a few minutes’ wild, exciting search.
Volume Three—Chapter Ten.Kindly Acts.Tom Porter had a way of his own when he was puzzled as to his course, and that was to go to the door and keep a bright look-out; in other words, follow old Gemp’s example, and stare up and down the street until he had attained a correct idea as to which way he had better steer.He had been looking thoughtfully out for about an hour on this particular night before he came to the conclusion that he knew the right way. But once determined, he entered, and, closing the door softly, he stopped for a minute to pull himself together, rearranging his necktie, pulling down his vest, and carefully fastening the top and bottom buttons, which had a rollicking habit of working themselves clear of their respective holes. His hair, too, required a little attention, being carefully smoothed with his fingers. This done, he moistened his hands, as if about to haul a rope, before going straight up to where his master was seated in front of the fire which the cool spring night made comfortable, who, as he sat there gazing very thoughtfully in between the bars, said:“Well, Tom, what is it?”“Been a-thinking, Sir Gordon—hard.”“Well, what about?”“’Bout you, Sir Gordon. It’s these here east winds getting into your bones again; as if I might be so bold—”“There, there, man, don’t stand hammering and stammering like that! You want to say something. Say it.”“’Bout the east wind, Sir Gordon, and whether you wouldn’t think it as well to take a trip.”“Yes, yes, man, I’m going on one—Mediterranean—in a few days,” said the old man dreamily.“Glad to hear it, Sir Gordon; but, if I might make so bold, why not make a longer trip?”“Not safe—yacht not big enough, my man. There, that will do: I want to think.”“I mean aboard ship, Sir Gordon. Why shouldn’t we go as far as Australia? We’ve seen a deal of the world, Sir Gordon, but we haven’t been there.”Tom Porter’s master gave him a peculiar look, and then nodded towards the door, when the man made a nautical bow, with a very apologetic smile, and backed out.“Went a bit too nigh the rocks that time. It warn’t like me—but, lor! what a man will do when there’s a woman in the way!”He had hardly settled himself in his pantry when the bell rang, and he went up, expecting a severe talking to.“Means a wigging!” he said, as he went up slowly, to find Sir Gordon pacing the room.Tom Porter did not know it, but his words had fallen just at that time when his master was pondering upon the possibility of such a trip, and, though he would not have owned to it, his man’s words had turned the balance.“Pack up at once,” he said.“Long cruise or short, Sir Gordon?”“Long.”“Ay, ay, Sir Gordon. Special dispatches, Sir Gordon?”“No; longer cruise than usual, that’s all.”“He’s going! I’d bet ten hundred thousand pounds he’s going!” said Tom Porter; “and I’m done for! She was a bit more easy last time we met; and I shall make a fool o’ myself—I know I shall!”He stood in the middle of his pantry, turning his right and left hands into a pestle and mortar, and grinding something invisible therein. Then, after a long silence:“Its fate, that’s about what it is!” said Tom Porter; “and that’s a current that you can’t fight agen.”After which philosophical declaration he began to pack, working well on into what he called the morning watch, and long after Sir Gordon had been comfortably asleep.The next day Tom Porter had orders to go with his master to the Admiralty, where he waited for about a couple of hours; and two days later he was on his way to Plymouth with the sea-chests, as he termed them, perfectly happy, and with his shore togs, as he called his livery, locked up in one of the presses in the chambers in St. James’s.His sailing orders were brief, and he put into port at the chief hotel to wait for his master; and he waited. Meantime there had been the painful partings between those who loved, and who, in spite of hopeful words, felt that in all human probability the parting was final.Through the interest of Sir Gordon, a passage had been obtained for Mrs Hallam and her daughter on board theSea King, a fine ship, chartered by the Government to take out a large detachment of troops, as well as several important officials, bound to the Antipodes on the mission of trying to foster what promised to be one of our most important colonies.“You will be more comfortable,” Sir Gordon said. “There will be ladies on board, and I will get you some introductions to them, as well as to the Governor at Port Jackson.”Mrs Hallam gave Bayle a piteous look, as if asking him to intercede for her.Bayle, however, seemed not to comprehend her look, and remained silent.It was a painful task, but Millicent Hallam was accustomed to painful tasks, and, turning to Sir Gordon, she said, in a quiet, resigned way:“You forget my position. I know how kindly all this is meant; but I must not be going out on false pretences. My fellow-passengers should not be deceived as to who and what I am. I may seem ungrateful to you, but it would have been far better for me to have gone out in some common ship.”“My dear child,” cried Sir Gordon, wringing his hands, “don’t be unreasonable! Do you suppose the womenkind on board theSea Kingare going to be so contemptible as to visit the sins of—My dear Bayle, you have more influence than I!” he cried hastily; “tell Mrs Hallam everything is settled, and she must go, and—there, there, we’ve had knots and tangles enough, don’t, pray, let us have any more!”The old gentleman, who seemed terribly perplexed, turned away, but paused as he felt a little hand upon his arm.“Don’t speak angrily to mamma,” whispered Julia; and the old man’s countenance became wholly sunny again.“No, no,” he said; “but you two must leave matters to Mr Bayle and me. We are acting for the best, my child. You cannot conceive what it would have been to let you go out as your mother proposed. It was madness!”“It is for Julie’s sake,” Mrs Hallam said to herself, when she consented to various little arrangements, though she shivered at the thought of being brought face to face with her fellow-passengers.“Indeed, we are acting with all the foresight we can bring to bear,” Bayle said, in answer to another remonstrance made in the hurry and bustle of preparation.“Yes,” she replied; “but you are doing too much. You make me tremble for the consequence.”Bayle smiled, and bade her take comfort. He was present with her almost daily, to report little matters that he had arranged for her as to money and baggage. Since he had accompanied her and Julia back to town he had been indefatigable, working with the most cheery good-humour, and smiling as he reported the success of the furniture sale; how capitally he had managed about the little investments of the wreck of Mrs Hallam’s money; and how he had obtained letters of credit for her at the Colonial Bank.Julia watched Bayle’s countenance day by day with a curious, wistful look, that would at times be pitiful, at other times full of resentment; and one day she turned to the doctor—the old gentleman and Mrs Luttrell having insisted upon coming to town, and following their child to Portsmouth, where they were to embark.“I believe, grandpa,” she said half angrily, “that Mr Bayle is tired of us, and that he is glad to get us off his hands.”“Nothing would ever tire Mr Bayle, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell reprovingly.Julia turned to her quickly and put her arms round the old lady’s neck, the tears in her eyes brimming over.“No; it was very unkind and ungenerous of me,” she said. “He has always been so good.”In the midst of what was almost a wild excitement of preparation, mingled with fits of despondency, Millicent Hallam noticed this too, and found time to feel hurt.“He is such an old friend,” she said to herself. “He has been like a brother; and it seems hard that he should appear to be less moved at our approaching farewell than Mr Thickens and his wife.”For, instigated by the latter, Thickens had come up and followed them to Portsmouth.“It would have about killed her, Mrs Hallam,” he said in confidence, as he sat chatting with her aside in the hotel room on the eve of their sailing. “But now a bit of business. I’ve been trying ever since I came to get a few words with you alone, only Sir Gordon and Mr Bayle were always in the way.”“Business, Mr Thickens?”“Yes, look here! I’m an actuary, you see, and money adviser, and that sort of thing. Now you are going out there on a long voyage, and you ought to be prepared for any little emergencies that may occur in a land that I find is not so barbarous as I thought, for I see they have a regular banking establishment there, and business regularly carried on in paper and bullion.”Mrs Hallam looked at him wonderingly.“Ah, I see you don’t understand me, so to be short,” he continued, “fact is I talked it over with, madam, and we settled it between us.”“Settled what?” said Mrs Hallam, wonderingly.“Well, the fact is, we’ve two hundred pounds fallen in. Been out on a good mortgage at five per cent, and just now I can’t place it anywhere at more than four, and that won’t do, you know, will it?”“Of course it would not be so advantageous.”“No, to be sure not, so we thought we’d ask you to take it at five. Money’s valuable out there. You could easily send us the dividend once a-year—ten pounds, you know, by credit note, and it would be useful to you, and doing your old friends a good turn. I hate to see money lying idle.”Mrs Hallam glanced across the room to see that little Mrs Thickens was watching them anxiously, and she felt the tears rise in her eyes as she darted a grateful look back, before turning to dry, drab-looking Thickens, who now and then put his hand up to his ear, as if expecting to find a pen there.“It is very good and very generous of you,” she said huskily, “and I can never be grateful enough for all this kindness. Believe me, I shall never forget it.”“That’s right. I shall have it all arranged, so that you can draw at the Colonial Bank.”“No, no,” cried Mrs Hallam with energy, “it is impossible. Besides, I have a sufficiency for our wants, ample for the present—the remains of my little property. Mr Bayle has managed it so well for me; my furniture brought in a nice little sum, and—”“Your what?” said Thickens in a puzzled tone.“My property. You remember what I had when—”“When you were married? Why, my dear madam, you don’t think any of that was left?”“Mr Thickens!”“Ah, I see,” he cried with a good-humoured smile, for delicacy was not the forte of the bank clerk of the little country town. “Mr Bayle patched up that story. Why, my dear madam, when the crash came you hadn’t a halfpenny. Here, quick, my dear! Mrs Hallam has turned faint!”“No, it is nothing,” she cried hastily. “I am better now, Mr Thickens. Go back to our friends, Julie—to grandma. It is past.”“I—I’m afraid I’ve spoken too plainly,” said Thickens apologetically, as soon as they were alone once more. “I wish I’d held my tongue.”“I am very glad that you spoke, Mr Thickens,” said Mrs Hallam in a low voice. “It was better that I should know.”“Then you will let me lend you that money?” eagerly.“No. It is impossible. I am deeper in obligations than I thought. Pray spare me by not saying more.”“I want to do everything you wish,” said Thickens uneasily.“Then say no word about what you have told me to any one.”“Pooh! Mrs Hallam, as if I should. Money matters are always sacred with me. That comes of Mr Bayle banking in town. If he had trusted me with his money matters, I should never have spoken like this.”
Tom Porter had a way of his own when he was puzzled as to his course, and that was to go to the door and keep a bright look-out; in other words, follow old Gemp’s example, and stare up and down the street until he had attained a correct idea as to which way he had better steer.
He had been looking thoughtfully out for about an hour on this particular night before he came to the conclusion that he knew the right way. But once determined, he entered, and, closing the door softly, he stopped for a minute to pull himself together, rearranging his necktie, pulling down his vest, and carefully fastening the top and bottom buttons, which had a rollicking habit of working themselves clear of their respective holes. His hair, too, required a little attention, being carefully smoothed with his fingers. This done, he moistened his hands, as if about to haul a rope, before going straight up to where his master was seated in front of the fire which the cool spring night made comfortable, who, as he sat there gazing very thoughtfully in between the bars, said:
“Well, Tom, what is it?”
“Been a-thinking, Sir Gordon—hard.”
“Well, what about?”
“’Bout you, Sir Gordon. It’s these here east winds getting into your bones again; as if I might be so bold—”
“There, there, man, don’t stand hammering and stammering like that! You want to say something. Say it.”
“’Bout the east wind, Sir Gordon, and whether you wouldn’t think it as well to take a trip.”
“Yes, yes, man, I’m going on one—Mediterranean—in a few days,” said the old man dreamily.
“Glad to hear it, Sir Gordon; but, if I might make so bold, why not make a longer trip?”
“Not safe—yacht not big enough, my man. There, that will do: I want to think.”
“I mean aboard ship, Sir Gordon. Why shouldn’t we go as far as Australia? We’ve seen a deal of the world, Sir Gordon, but we haven’t been there.”
Tom Porter’s master gave him a peculiar look, and then nodded towards the door, when the man made a nautical bow, with a very apologetic smile, and backed out.
“Went a bit too nigh the rocks that time. It warn’t like me—but, lor! what a man will do when there’s a woman in the way!”
He had hardly settled himself in his pantry when the bell rang, and he went up, expecting a severe talking to.
“Means a wigging!” he said, as he went up slowly, to find Sir Gordon pacing the room.
Tom Porter did not know it, but his words had fallen just at that time when his master was pondering upon the possibility of such a trip, and, though he would not have owned to it, his man’s words had turned the balance.
“Pack up at once,” he said.
“Long cruise or short, Sir Gordon?”
“Long.”
“Ay, ay, Sir Gordon. Special dispatches, Sir Gordon?”
“No; longer cruise than usual, that’s all.”
“He’s going! I’d bet ten hundred thousand pounds he’s going!” said Tom Porter; “and I’m done for! She was a bit more easy last time we met; and I shall make a fool o’ myself—I know I shall!”
He stood in the middle of his pantry, turning his right and left hands into a pestle and mortar, and grinding something invisible therein. Then, after a long silence:
“Its fate, that’s about what it is!” said Tom Porter; “and that’s a current that you can’t fight agen.”
After which philosophical declaration he began to pack, working well on into what he called the morning watch, and long after Sir Gordon had been comfortably asleep.
The next day Tom Porter had orders to go with his master to the Admiralty, where he waited for about a couple of hours; and two days later he was on his way to Plymouth with the sea-chests, as he termed them, perfectly happy, and with his shore togs, as he called his livery, locked up in one of the presses in the chambers in St. James’s.
His sailing orders were brief, and he put into port at the chief hotel to wait for his master; and he waited. Meantime there had been the painful partings between those who loved, and who, in spite of hopeful words, felt that in all human probability the parting was final.
Through the interest of Sir Gordon, a passage had been obtained for Mrs Hallam and her daughter on board theSea King, a fine ship, chartered by the Government to take out a large detachment of troops, as well as several important officials, bound to the Antipodes on the mission of trying to foster what promised to be one of our most important colonies.
“You will be more comfortable,” Sir Gordon said. “There will be ladies on board, and I will get you some introductions to them, as well as to the Governor at Port Jackson.”
Mrs Hallam gave Bayle a piteous look, as if asking him to intercede for her.
Bayle, however, seemed not to comprehend her look, and remained silent.
It was a painful task, but Millicent Hallam was accustomed to painful tasks, and, turning to Sir Gordon, she said, in a quiet, resigned way:
“You forget my position. I know how kindly all this is meant; but I must not be going out on false pretences. My fellow-passengers should not be deceived as to who and what I am. I may seem ungrateful to you, but it would have been far better for me to have gone out in some common ship.”
“My dear child,” cried Sir Gordon, wringing his hands, “don’t be unreasonable! Do you suppose the womenkind on board theSea Kingare going to be so contemptible as to visit the sins of—My dear Bayle, you have more influence than I!” he cried hastily; “tell Mrs Hallam everything is settled, and she must go, and—there, there, we’ve had knots and tangles enough, don’t, pray, let us have any more!”
The old gentleman, who seemed terribly perplexed, turned away, but paused as he felt a little hand upon his arm.
“Don’t speak angrily to mamma,” whispered Julia; and the old man’s countenance became wholly sunny again.
“No, no,” he said; “but you two must leave matters to Mr Bayle and me. We are acting for the best, my child. You cannot conceive what it would have been to let you go out as your mother proposed. It was madness!”
“It is for Julie’s sake,” Mrs Hallam said to herself, when she consented to various little arrangements, though she shivered at the thought of being brought face to face with her fellow-passengers.
“Indeed, we are acting with all the foresight we can bring to bear,” Bayle said, in answer to another remonstrance made in the hurry and bustle of preparation.
“Yes,” she replied; “but you are doing too much. You make me tremble for the consequence.”
Bayle smiled, and bade her take comfort. He was present with her almost daily, to report little matters that he had arranged for her as to money and baggage. Since he had accompanied her and Julia back to town he had been indefatigable, working with the most cheery good-humour, and smiling as he reported the success of the furniture sale; how capitally he had managed about the little investments of the wreck of Mrs Hallam’s money; and how he had obtained letters of credit for her at the Colonial Bank.
Julia watched Bayle’s countenance day by day with a curious, wistful look, that would at times be pitiful, at other times full of resentment; and one day she turned to the doctor—the old gentleman and Mrs Luttrell having insisted upon coming to town, and following their child to Portsmouth, where they were to embark.
“I believe, grandpa,” she said half angrily, “that Mr Bayle is tired of us, and that he is glad to get us off his hands.”
“Nothing would ever tire Mr Bayle, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell reprovingly.
Julia turned to her quickly and put her arms round the old lady’s neck, the tears in her eyes brimming over.
“No; it was very unkind and ungenerous of me,” she said. “He has always been so good.”
In the midst of what was almost a wild excitement of preparation, mingled with fits of despondency, Millicent Hallam noticed this too, and found time to feel hurt.
“He is such an old friend,” she said to herself. “He has been like a brother; and it seems hard that he should appear to be less moved at our approaching farewell than Mr Thickens and his wife.”
For, instigated by the latter, Thickens had come up and followed them to Portsmouth.
“It would have about killed her, Mrs Hallam,” he said in confidence, as he sat chatting with her aside in the hotel room on the eve of their sailing. “But now a bit of business. I’ve been trying ever since I came to get a few words with you alone, only Sir Gordon and Mr Bayle were always in the way.”
“Business, Mr Thickens?”
“Yes, look here! I’m an actuary, you see, and money adviser, and that sort of thing. Now you are going out there on a long voyage, and you ought to be prepared for any little emergencies that may occur in a land that I find is not so barbarous as I thought, for I see they have a regular banking establishment there, and business regularly carried on in paper and bullion.”
Mrs Hallam looked at him wonderingly.
“Ah, I see you don’t understand me, so to be short,” he continued, “fact is I talked it over with, madam, and we settled it between us.”
“Settled what?” said Mrs Hallam, wonderingly.
“Well, the fact is, we’ve two hundred pounds fallen in. Been out on a good mortgage at five per cent, and just now I can’t place it anywhere at more than four, and that won’t do, you know, will it?”
“Of course it would not be so advantageous.”
“No, to be sure not, so we thought we’d ask you to take it at five. Money’s valuable out there. You could easily send us the dividend once a-year—ten pounds, you know, by credit note, and it would be useful to you, and doing your old friends a good turn. I hate to see money lying idle.”
Mrs Hallam glanced across the room to see that little Mrs Thickens was watching them anxiously, and she felt the tears rise in her eyes as she darted a grateful look back, before turning to dry, drab-looking Thickens, who now and then put his hand up to his ear, as if expecting to find a pen there.
“It is very good and very generous of you,” she said huskily, “and I can never be grateful enough for all this kindness. Believe me, I shall never forget it.”
“That’s right. I shall have it all arranged, so that you can draw at the Colonial Bank.”
“No, no,” cried Mrs Hallam with energy, “it is impossible. Besides, I have a sufficiency for our wants, ample for the present—the remains of my little property. Mr Bayle has managed it so well for me; my furniture brought in a nice little sum, and—”
“Your what?” said Thickens in a puzzled tone.
“My property. You remember what I had when—”
“When you were married? Why, my dear madam, you don’t think any of that was left?”
“Mr Thickens!”
“Ah, I see,” he cried with a good-humoured smile, for delicacy was not the forte of the bank clerk of the little country town. “Mr Bayle patched up that story. Why, my dear madam, when the crash came you hadn’t a halfpenny. Here, quick, my dear! Mrs Hallam has turned faint!”
“No, it is nothing,” she cried hastily. “I am better now, Mr Thickens. Go back to our friends, Julie—to grandma. It is past.”
“I—I’m afraid I’ve spoken too plainly,” said Thickens apologetically, as soon as they were alone once more. “I wish I’d held my tongue.”
“I am very glad that you spoke, Mr Thickens,” said Mrs Hallam in a low voice. “It was better that I should know.”
“Then you will let me lend you that money?” eagerly.
“No. It is impossible. I am deeper in obligations than I thought. Pray spare me by not saying more.”
“I want to do everything you wish,” said Thickens uneasily.
“Then say no word about what you have told me to any one.”
“Pooh! Mrs Hallam, as if I should. Money matters are always sacred with me. That comes of Mr Bayle banking in town. If he had trusted me with his money matters, I should never have spoken like this.”
Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.Millicent Hallam Learns a Little more of the Truth.It was a painful evening that last. Every one was assuming to be light-hearted, and talking of the voyage as being pleasant, and hinting delicately at the possibility of seeing mother and daughter soon again, but all the while feeling that the farewells must in all probability be final.Mr and Mrs Thickens retired early, for the latter whispered to her husband that she could bear it no longer.“I feel, dear, as if it were a funeral, and we were being kept all this while standing by the open grave!”“Hush!” whispered back Thickens; “it’s like prophesying evil.” And they hurriedly took leave.Then Sir Gordon rose, saying that it was very late, and he, too, went, leaving mother and daughter exchanging glances, for the old man seemed cool and unruffled in an extraordinary degree.Bayle remained a little longer, talking to Doctor and Mrs Luttrell, whose favourite attitudes all the evening had been seated on either side of Julia, each holding a hand.“Good-night,” said Bayle at last, rising and shaking hands with Julia in a cheery, pleasant manner. “No sitting up. Take my advice and have a good rest, so as to be prepared for the sea demon. Eleven punctually, you know, to-morrow. Everything ready?”“Yes, everything is ready,” replied Julia, looking at him with her eyes flashing and a feeling of anger at his cavalier manner forcing its way to the surface. It seemed so Cruel. Just at a time like that, when a few tender words of sympathy would have been like balm to the wounded spirit, he was as cool and indifferent as could be. She was right, she told herself. He really was tired of them.Bayle evidently read her ingenuous young countenance and smiled, with the result that she darted an indignant glance at him, and then could not keep back her tears.“Oh, no, no, no,” he said, taking her hand and holding it, speaking the while as if she were a child. “Tears, tears? Oh, nonsense! Why, these are not the days of Christopher Columbus. You are not going to sail away upon an unknown sea. It is a mere yachting trip, and every mile of the way is known. Come, come: cheer up. That’s nautical, you know, Julie. Good-night, my dear! good-night.”He shook hands far more warmly and affectionately with the Doctor and Mrs Luttrell, hesitating for a moment or two, and even taking poor weeping Mrs Luttrell in his arms, and kissing her tenderly again and again.“Good-night, good-night, my dear old friend,” he said. “You have been almost more than a mother to me. Good-night, good-night.”The old lady sobbed upon his shoulder for some time, the doctor holding Bayle’s other hand, while Julia crossed to her mother, who was standing cold and statuesque near the door, and hid her face.“Good-night and good-bye, my dear boy,” said Mrs Luttrell, as she raised her head; and looked up in his face. “And you always have seemed as if you were our son.”Bayle’s lip quivered, and his face was for a moment convulsed, but he was calm again in a moment.“To be sure, doctor,” he said. “I shall come down and see you again—some day. I want some gardening for a change. Good-night, good—”His last word was inaudible, as he hurried towards the door, where Mrs Hallam was awaiting him.“Go back to your grandmother, Julie,” she said, in a low, stern voice. “Christie Bayle, I wish to speak to you.”“To me? To-night?” he said hastily. “No: to-morrow. I am not myself now, and you need rest.”“No,” she said, in the same deep voice; “to-night,” and she led the way into an inner room.Julia made as if to follow, but stopped short, and stood watching till her mother and their old friend disappeared.The room was lit only by the light that streamed in from the street lamp and a shop near the hotel, so that the faces of Millicent Hallam and Bayle were half in shadow as they stood opposite to each other.Bayle was silent, for he had seen that Mrs Hallam was deeply moved. He had studied her face too many years not to be able to read its various changes; and now, on the eve of her departure, he knew that in spite of the apparent calmness of the surface a terrible storm of grief must be raging beneath, and feeling that perhaps she wished to say a few words of thanks to him, and while asking some attention towards the old people, she was about to take this opportunity to bid him farewell, he stood there in silence waiting for her to speak.Twice over she essayed, but the words would not come. It was as if misery, indignation, and humiliation were contending in her breast, and each mood was uppermost when she opened her lips. How could she have been so unworldly—so blind all these years, as not to have seen that Christie Bayle had been impoverishing himself that she and her child might live?As she thought this, she was moved to humility, and admiration of the gentleman who had hidden all this from them, always behaving with the greatest delicacy, and carefully hiding the part he had taken in her life.“And I thought myself so experienced—so well taught by adversity,” she said to herself.“Did you wish to ask me something, Mrs Hallam!” said Bayle, at last. “Is it some commission you wish me to undertake?”“Stop a moment,” she said hoarsely. Then, as if by a tremendous effort over herself, she tried to steady her voice, and to speak indignantly, as she exclaimed:“Christie Bayle, why have you humiliated me like this?”He started, for he had not the remotest idea that she had learnt his secret.“Humiliated you?” he said. “Oh, no, I could not have done that.”“I have trusted you so well—looked upon you as a brother, and now at the eleventh hour of my home life, I find that even you have not deserved my trust.”“Indeed!” he said, smiling. “What have I done?”“What have you done?” she cried indignantly, her emotion begetting a kind of unreason, and making her bitter in her words. “What have I done in my misery and misfortune that you should take advantage of my position? That man to-night has told me all.”“I hardly understand you,” he said gravely.“Not understand? He has told me that when that terrible trouble came upon me, it did not come singly, and that I was left penniless to battle with the world. Is this true?”Bayle refrained for a few moments before answering. “Is this wise?” he said at last. “For your own sake—for the sake of Julie, you have need of all your fortitude to bear up against a painful series of farewells. Why trouble about this trifle now?”“Trifle!” she cried angrily. “Stop! Let me think.” She stood with her hands pressed to her forehead, as if struggling to drag something from the past—from out of the mist and turmoil of those terrible days and nights, when her brain seemed to have been on fire, and she lay almost at the point of death.“Yes,” she cried, as if a flash had suddenly illumined her brain, “I see now. I know. Tell me: is what that man said true?”He was slow to answer, but at last the words came, uttered sadly, and in a low voice:“If he told you that at that terrible time you were left in distress, it is true.”“I knew it,” she said, passionately. “Now tell me this—I will know. When my poor husband lay there helpless—in prison—yes, it all comes back clearly now—my illness seems to have covered it as with a mist, but I remember that there was powerful counsel engaged for his defence, and great efforts were made to save him. Who did this? I have kept it hidden away, not daring to drag these matters out into the light of the present, but I must know now. Who did this?”He did not answer.“Your silence convicts you,” she cried, angrily. “It was you.”“Yes,” he said, quietly, “it was I.”“Then we were left penniless, and it is to you we owe everything—for all these years?”Again he was silent.“Answer me,” she cried imperiously.“Did I not acknowledge it before,” he said calmly. “Mrs Hallam, have I committed so grave a social crime, that you speak to me like this?”“It was cruel—to me—to my child,” she cried, indignantly. “You have kept us in a false position all these years. Man, can you not understand the degradation and shame I felt when I was enlightened here only an hour ago?”He stood there silent again for a few moments, before speaking; and then took her hand.“If I have done wrong,” he said, “forgive me. When that blow fell, and in your position, all the past seemed to come back—that day when in my boyish vanity I—”“Oh! hush!” she cried.“Nay, let me speak,” he said calmly. “I recalled that day when you bade me be friend and brother to you, and life seemed to be one blank despair. I remembered how I prayed for strength, and how that strength came, how I vowed that I would be friend and brother to you and yours; and when the time of tribulation came was my act so unbrotherly in your distress?”She was silent.“Millicent Hallam, do you think that I have not loved your child as tenderly as if she had been my own? Fate gave me money. Well, men, as a rule, spend their money in a way that affords them the most pleasure. I am only a weak man, and I have done the same.”“You have kept yourself poor that we might live in idleness.”“You are wrong,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “I was never richer than during these peaceful years—that have now come to an end,” he added sorrowfully; “and you would make me poor once more. There,” he continued, speaking quickly, “I confess all. Forgive me. I could not see you in want.”“I should not have been in want,” she said proudly. “If I had known that it was necessary I should work, the toil would have come easily to my hands. I should have toiled on for my child’s sake, and waited patiently until my husband bade me come.”“But you forgive me?” he said, in his old tone.For answer she sank upon the floor at his feet, covering her face with her hands; and he heard her sobbing.“Good-night,” he said at last. “I will send Julie.”He bent down and laid his fingers softly upon her head for a moment, and was turning to go, but she caught at his hand and held it.“A moment,” she cried; “best and truest friend. Forgive me, and mine—when we are divided, as we shall be—for life, try—pray for me—pray for him—and believe in him—as you do in me—my husband, Christie Bayle—my poor martyred husband.”“And I am forgiven?” he said.“Forgiven!”She said no more, and he passed quickly into the room where Julia was anxiously awaiting his return.“Doctor—Mrs Luttrell,” he said, “you must try and calm her, or she will not be able to undertake this journey. Julie, my child, try what you can do. Good-night. Good-night.”As the door closed after him, Mrs Hallam walked back into the room looking calm and stern; but her face softened as Julia clung to her and then seated herself at her mother’s feet, the next hours passing so peacefully that it was impossible to believe that the time for parting was so near.
It was a painful evening that last. Every one was assuming to be light-hearted, and talking of the voyage as being pleasant, and hinting delicately at the possibility of seeing mother and daughter soon again, but all the while feeling that the farewells must in all probability be final.
Mr and Mrs Thickens retired early, for the latter whispered to her husband that she could bear it no longer.
“I feel, dear, as if it were a funeral, and we were being kept all this while standing by the open grave!”
“Hush!” whispered back Thickens; “it’s like prophesying evil.” And they hurriedly took leave.
Then Sir Gordon rose, saying that it was very late, and he, too, went, leaving mother and daughter exchanging glances, for the old man seemed cool and unruffled in an extraordinary degree.
Bayle remained a little longer, talking to Doctor and Mrs Luttrell, whose favourite attitudes all the evening had been seated on either side of Julia, each holding a hand.
“Good-night,” said Bayle at last, rising and shaking hands with Julia in a cheery, pleasant manner. “No sitting up. Take my advice and have a good rest, so as to be prepared for the sea demon. Eleven punctually, you know, to-morrow. Everything ready?”
“Yes, everything is ready,” replied Julia, looking at him with her eyes flashing and a feeling of anger at his cavalier manner forcing its way to the surface. It seemed so Cruel. Just at a time like that, when a few tender words of sympathy would have been like balm to the wounded spirit, he was as cool and indifferent as could be. She was right, she told herself. He really was tired of them.
Bayle evidently read her ingenuous young countenance and smiled, with the result that she darted an indignant glance at him, and then could not keep back her tears.
“Oh, no, no, no,” he said, taking her hand and holding it, speaking the while as if she were a child. “Tears, tears? Oh, nonsense! Why, these are not the days of Christopher Columbus. You are not going to sail away upon an unknown sea. It is a mere yachting trip, and every mile of the way is known. Come, come: cheer up. That’s nautical, you know, Julie. Good-night, my dear! good-night.”
He shook hands far more warmly and affectionately with the Doctor and Mrs Luttrell, hesitating for a moment or two, and even taking poor weeping Mrs Luttrell in his arms, and kissing her tenderly again and again.
“Good-night, good-night, my dear old friend,” he said. “You have been almost more than a mother to me. Good-night, good-night.”
The old lady sobbed upon his shoulder for some time, the doctor holding Bayle’s other hand, while Julia crossed to her mother, who was standing cold and statuesque near the door, and hid her face.
“Good-night and good-bye, my dear boy,” said Mrs Luttrell, as she raised her head; and looked up in his face. “And you always have seemed as if you were our son.”
Bayle’s lip quivered, and his face was for a moment convulsed, but he was calm again in a moment.
“To be sure, doctor,” he said. “I shall come down and see you again—some day. I want some gardening for a change. Good-night, good—”
His last word was inaudible, as he hurried towards the door, where Mrs Hallam was awaiting him.
“Go back to your grandmother, Julie,” she said, in a low, stern voice. “Christie Bayle, I wish to speak to you.”
“To me? To-night?” he said hastily. “No: to-morrow. I am not myself now, and you need rest.”
“No,” she said, in the same deep voice; “to-night,” and she led the way into an inner room.
Julia made as if to follow, but stopped short, and stood watching till her mother and their old friend disappeared.
The room was lit only by the light that streamed in from the street lamp and a shop near the hotel, so that the faces of Millicent Hallam and Bayle were half in shadow as they stood opposite to each other.
Bayle was silent, for he had seen that Mrs Hallam was deeply moved. He had studied her face too many years not to be able to read its various changes; and now, on the eve of her departure, he knew that in spite of the apparent calmness of the surface a terrible storm of grief must be raging beneath, and feeling that perhaps she wished to say a few words of thanks to him, and while asking some attention towards the old people, she was about to take this opportunity to bid him farewell, he stood there in silence waiting for her to speak.
Twice over she essayed, but the words would not come. It was as if misery, indignation, and humiliation were contending in her breast, and each mood was uppermost when she opened her lips. How could she have been so unworldly—so blind all these years, as not to have seen that Christie Bayle had been impoverishing himself that she and her child might live?
As she thought this, she was moved to humility, and admiration of the gentleman who had hidden all this from them, always behaving with the greatest delicacy, and carefully hiding the part he had taken in her life.
“And I thought myself so experienced—so well taught by adversity,” she said to herself.
“Did you wish to ask me something, Mrs Hallam!” said Bayle, at last. “Is it some commission you wish me to undertake?”
“Stop a moment,” she said hoarsely. Then, as if by a tremendous effort over herself, she tried to steady her voice, and to speak indignantly, as she exclaimed:
“Christie Bayle, why have you humiliated me like this?”
He started, for he had not the remotest idea that she had learnt his secret.
“Humiliated you?” he said. “Oh, no, I could not have done that.”
“I have trusted you so well—looked upon you as a brother, and now at the eleventh hour of my home life, I find that even you have not deserved my trust.”
“Indeed!” he said, smiling. “What have I done?”
“What have you done?” she cried indignantly, her emotion begetting a kind of unreason, and making her bitter in her words. “What have I done in my misery and misfortune that you should take advantage of my position? That man to-night has told me all.”
“I hardly understand you,” he said gravely.
“Not understand? He has told me that when that terrible trouble came upon me, it did not come singly, and that I was left penniless to battle with the world. Is this true?”
Bayle refrained for a few moments before answering. “Is this wise?” he said at last. “For your own sake—for the sake of Julie, you have need of all your fortitude to bear up against a painful series of farewells. Why trouble about this trifle now?”
“Trifle!” she cried angrily. “Stop! Let me think.” She stood with her hands pressed to her forehead, as if struggling to drag something from the past—from out of the mist and turmoil of those terrible days and nights, when her brain seemed to have been on fire, and she lay almost at the point of death.
“Yes,” she cried, as if a flash had suddenly illumined her brain, “I see now. I know. Tell me: is what that man said true?”
He was slow to answer, but at last the words came, uttered sadly, and in a low voice:
“If he told you that at that terrible time you were left in distress, it is true.”
“I knew it,” she said, passionately. “Now tell me this—I will know. When my poor husband lay there helpless—in prison—yes, it all comes back clearly now—my illness seems to have covered it as with a mist, but I remember that there was powerful counsel engaged for his defence, and great efforts were made to save him. Who did this? I have kept it hidden away, not daring to drag these matters out into the light of the present, but I must know now. Who did this?”
He did not answer.
“Your silence convicts you,” she cried, angrily. “It was you.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly, “it was I.”
“Then we were left penniless, and it is to you we owe everything—for all these years?”
Again he was silent.
“Answer me,” she cried imperiously.
“Did I not acknowledge it before,” he said calmly. “Mrs Hallam, have I committed so grave a social crime, that you speak to me like this?”
“It was cruel—to me—to my child,” she cried, indignantly. “You have kept us in a false position all these years. Man, can you not understand the degradation and shame I felt when I was enlightened here only an hour ago?”
He stood there silent again for a few moments, before speaking; and then took her hand.
“If I have done wrong,” he said, “forgive me. When that blow fell, and in your position, all the past seemed to come back—that day when in my boyish vanity I—”
“Oh! hush!” she cried.
“Nay, let me speak,” he said calmly. “I recalled that day when you bade me be friend and brother to you, and life seemed to be one blank despair. I remembered how I prayed for strength, and how that strength came, how I vowed that I would be friend and brother to you and yours; and when the time of tribulation came was my act so unbrotherly in your distress?”
She was silent.
“Millicent Hallam, do you think that I have not loved your child as tenderly as if she had been my own? Fate gave me money. Well, men, as a rule, spend their money in a way that affords them the most pleasure. I am only a weak man, and I have done the same.”
“You have kept yourself poor that we might live in idleness.”
“You are wrong,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “I was never richer than during these peaceful years—that have now come to an end,” he added sorrowfully; “and you would make me poor once more. There,” he continued, speaking quickly, “I confess all. Forgive me. I could not see you in want.”
“I should not have been in want,” she said proudly. “If I had known that it was necessary I should work, the toil would have come easily to my hands. I should have toiled on for my child’s sake, and waited patiently until my husband bade me come.”
“But you forgive me?” he said, in his old tone.
For answer she sank upon the floor at his feet, covering her face with her hands; and he heard her sobbing.
“Good-night,” he said at last. “I will send Julie.”
He bent down and laid his fingers softly upon her head for a moment, and was turning to go, but she caught at his hand and held it.
“A moment,” she cried; “best and truest friend. Forgive me, and mine—when we are divided, as we shall be—for life, try—pray for me—pray for him—and believe in him—as you do in me—my husband, Christie Bayle—my poor martyred husband.”
“And I am forgiven?” he said.
“Forgiven!”
She said no more, and he passed quickly into the room where Julia was anxiously awaiting his return.
“Doctor—Mrs Luttrell,” he said, “you must try and calm her, or she will not be able to undertake this journey. Julie, my child, try what you can do. Good-night. Good-night.”
As the door closed after him, Mrs Hallam walked back into the room looking calm and stern; but her face softened as Julia clung to her and then seated herself at her mother’s feet, the next hours passing so peacefully that it was impossible to believe that the time for parting was so near.